


lord and savior

by drcwning



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Drabble, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Mommy Issues, Mother-Son Relationship, Not Beta Read, Physical Abuse, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, also to project onto my ocs, i don't know how to tag, literally only wrote this for fun, someone give him a hug, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:14:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28049820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcwning/pseuds/drcwning
Summary: In the quiet air, breaking the thick silence of his home, his mother ran her hand through his hair, smoothing the areas she had so vigorously yanked earlier. “Confess, my gift,” she whispered.
Kudos: 4





	lord and savior

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for child and religious abuse

When the clock struck noon, a dull chime rang throughout the home, a stark reminder in the Sunday light of his duties. His mother’s gentle humming filled him with serenity as she sliced a loaf of warm, freshly baked bread. And he, with a glass of red wine in his hand, listened carefully to the tune that slipped through the room like the song of a morning bird. The woman, small in stature but mighty in her presence—with thin blonde hair and the onset of wrinkles in her skin; little canyons by her cheeks and eyes, carved by slow, unspoken stresses of life and age—carried the platter of bread across the kitchen and into the living room, where a small table was set with pristine white cloth and a vase of flowers that made tickled his nose if he ever got too close. She was a fine woman, and he was but a young, wide-eyed boy.

“Come,” his mother called as she stood back to observe the table.

Framed was a picture of their savior, their heavenly face illuminated by candles on either side. The bread, their body, and the wine, their blood. Vincent was no stranger to this; it had become his life. He carried the glass carefully like he was holding a precious, fragile egg. The frail woman began to hum once more, and in the tranquility of her voice, Vincent tore his green eyes away from the glass to peer at his mother, a smile threatening to stretch across his usually deadpanned face. His steps became a little too careless.

Then, there was a drop on his foot, the impact ripping his attention from his mother and he looked down in horror to find that he had spilled the wine. It wasn’t entirely expensive, they did not have to break the bank to purchase the bottle. But it was worth more than any stack of money could ever amount to. The humming stopped abruptly. In the silence that had engulfed him but not his shame, which still hung thick in the air, he backed away, shaking the droplets off his foot to clean up.

“You _**dare** _spill the blood of your Savior?” she shrieked.

Vincent flinched hard enough that the glass slipped from his hand entirely. Though he fumbled to catch it, just like his chances of escaping this situation unscathed, it slipped out from his grasp. It shattered against the wooden floors, red wine splashing momentarily before it seeped around into a small puddle. He stammered for the right words, his heart pounding against his chest like a war drum, a signal of impending doom. “I-I’m so sor—“

The woman did not wait for him to finish his sentence, stepping over the mess of broken glass and swinging her palm, with the full momentum and weight of her arm behind it, across his tender face.

He knew better than to speak again.

“You are ** _vile_** ,” she seethed.

Her tearful expression hurt him more than the impact of her wrath did. Heavens, he had made his mother cry, what kind of a son was he? How was the Lord supposed to see the light in his existence and birth if he brought despair to his own kin? The tears slipped down her face, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe them away, to comfort her.

“I have worked so hard, I have slaved away, sacrificed everything to show you light and salvation. You give me nothing but disrespect. You give your _Lord_ nothing but disrespect.” She ran a hand along his face, caressing the cheek that she had struck only seconds go.

Vincent savored the touch, so gentle compared to her fury-fueled slap. How did he mess up so badly?

“You are filthy, incompetent scum,” the woman snarled. The soft hand on his cheek morphed into a fist when it tangled through his hair, equally blonde as hers, and yanked him headfirst toward the altar. He stumbled over the glass, a stifled yelp barely slipping through his lips as the shards embedded themselves into the soles of his feet. He silenced himself quickly before he could further anger his mother.

She brought him to a halt, hand still grasping thick locks of his hair, before she shoved him towards the ground with a cry of her own, the tears streaming down her cheeks, skin flushed pink, eyebrow creased. There was something in her eyes other than the anger. Was it shame? Disgust?

Roaring, she forced him down onto the floor. “ **Kneel**!”

And kneel he did, with his head bowed and his breath caught solid in his throat, like a mass he could not swallow, and he was suffocating slowly on his own guilt. Pain etched into his feet, his nerves screaming for him to remove the sharp glass still lodged into his flesh. It pulsated all the way into his shins, but nothing was compared to the pain of making his mother cry. How had he been so stupid?

Vincent wanted to apologize again and promise to make it up to her, but he could not speak. He was not allowed to.

With a single, shallow breath, his mother permitted him to speak the words he had been trained to say like a dog. Trained to kneel like a peasant; they were the words that defined his life, flesh and blood, sweat and tears. He breathed them, dreamt of them, _lived_ for them.

In the quiet air, breaking the thick silence of his home, his mother ran her hand through his hair, smoothing the areas she had so vigorously yanked earlier. “Confess, my gift,” she whispered.

Vincent’s voice shook, but his intent was clear as day, clear as the glass in his feet.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

His mother stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “May the Lord help you to confess your sins.”

“Amen.” He did not dare look into the eyes of the person in the picture. “It has been ten days since my last confession. Forgive me, my God, for I have sinned once more. I have brought shame to this family, and tainted our Holy name. Carelessness, recklessness, and cowardice plague me like an illness. I have made my beloved mother weep as a result of my actions. Every breath I take, every step I make, is followed by disgrace. I have defiled our property, life, and being. I am sorry for all my sins. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I detest my failures because of Your just punishment. I am in your saving grace, and pray to sin no more.”

The silence that followed allowed him to suck in another trembling breath. The grandfather clock ticked, dull as a metronome, before his mother knelt beside him. Small hands, thin bony fingers, caressed his cheeks. She cupped his face with both hands, turning his head so he would face her.

“Look at me, darling boy.”

His eyes slowly flickered up to hers, his vision blurred with tears.

“Your Lord will not forgive you just because you have confessed. Prove it with your actions, accept your punishment.” His mother spoke almost in a song, words flowing from one to another, as her own crying halted almost instantly, and a smile stretched across her face, her teeth and eyes illuminated by the candlelight. “I love you. I wouldn’t want you to be a filthy sinner. You know that right?”

“Yes. I love you."

“Who is your Lord?”

“It’s _you._ It’s always you, mother.”

She was satisfied.

Vincent swallowed, glancing at the picture on the altar. It was not Christ. It was no angel. Simply a portrait of the same woman in front of him. Deep down inside of him, the contempt stirred, bubbled like poison. One day, he knew and feared all the same, that it would enshroud his grace with hatred. For now, he worshipped, and his Savior would never forgive.

**Author's Note:**

> shameless self promofollow my art account @ rigormorgue on instagram pls ^_^


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